My head was dizzy and excited about finding the Liz Delaney information. It felt like a weird connection. We were both interested in doomed flights over East Texas. If she only knew our story, she could help! I was sure of it. So I fired off another e-mail to her and hoped for the best.
Next, I received a text from Dennis Alan Rosenblatt, a.k.a. Denny, who made tragic use of acronyms. And it completely took my mind off air disasters.
Do not 4get. My BM is at 10:30 on Sat.
Do you know why that is so hilarious? So hilarious that I fell off my bed laughing and Grandpa Grouch shouted through my closed door, “Keep it down in there, soldier!”
My new and improved post-crash laugh still sounded like a sick donkey.
Anyway, here is a truth: People will make fun of you if you use acronyms incorrectly. It has happened to me with disastrous consequences. Never text anyone you are having a BM, okay?
BM = bowel movement.
So I wrote back to Denny:
Wow, you know the exact time of your BM??? How long have you been timing them?
I hadn’t found anything that funny since one of the special gymnasts at the West Academy wore her shirt backward and didn’t even know it. But aside from that, it was Denny’s bar mitzvah, and I was excited to go.
Me: I’m going?
Denny: Of course, Wayne on a plane. Don’t you want to hear me stutter through my Torah portion?
Me: You’ll be okay.
Denny: I may have an actual BM. Very nervous! But there will be girls from my synagogue and they love the dance portion, so there’s that. Wear a tie.
Now, I want you to picture me with all my many flaws, scars, a poorly tied tie (I wasn’t about to invite Grandpa into my room, so I Googled how to do it), and a superthin left eyebrow as I entered Temple Emanu-El the morning Dennis Rosenblatt was to become a bona fide man.
You won’t believe it, but I didn’t look too bad. When you are in a room where every man is wearing a suit and the same type of hat, you fit in.
Mom had dropped me off at the synagogue. I went in and they fitted me with the yarmulke and handed me a program.
I expected the synagogue to look serious, and it did. It was all warm orangey colors, especially the oak pews, and the lights were low, so it made you know something important was about to take place. Mrs. Rosenblatt waved me up and sat me right next to Denny’s grandmother.
“You sit with Bubbie, Wayne, my sweet little gentile.”
Bubbie smiled at me and patted my hand with her dry fingers. “You could be Jewish. Your profile suggests a tribal lineage.”
I didn’t know how to answer this or if it was a true compliment. I just smiled and let her pat my hand some more. I noticed she had three rings on one hand.
“Bubbie will tell you what is going to happen. The Torah will be passed from the grandfather to the father to the bar mitzvah, Dennis. This symbolizes the passing down of the obligation to study the Torah. Our Dennis will recite his portion, and he will ask for a blessing from the rabbi. When he gets this blessing, he will now be responsible for himself and for following the commandments. Do you understand?”
I nodded, which, of course, was all I could do. In fact, it was what Denny had told me to do.
Denny had told me that his mother would sit me next to Bubbie.
Just before the ceremony, I sent Denny a text.
Me: What should I do?
Denny: Just nod. I, Denny Rosenblatt, am her second-favorite topic in the world. So just let her talk about me.
Me: What is her first-favorite topic?
Denny: Anything about dietary fiber and her need for more.
“Denny is my sweet, sweet little mensch,” Bubbie said, still patting my hand. I figured we were on safe footing now that she’d brought up her second-favorite topic. I planned to do a lot of nodding to encourage her to stay on this topic. My knowledge of fiber was limited.
So I sat in the synagogue pews and watched Denny as he was surrounded by his grandfather and father and as the Torah scrolls, wrapped in blue velvet with golden trim, were passed from one man to the next. Denny’s face told the whole story. He was ready to receive them. There was a part of the ceremony where the congregation answered in unison, and I had no idea what it meant or what they said. I just focused on the story of Denny’s face, which was fixed in concentration as the Torah scrolls were unrolled on a table.
The rabbi took part of his shawl and touched the spot where Denny was to read. Denny took his own shawl, touched the spot on the parchment, and then kissed the edge of his shawl. He rolled the scrolls back together and they all prayed. When he placed a pointer on the scrolls, he began his Torah portion. The words came out of his mouth like a chant. Like he was almost singing. Bubbie leaned into my shoulder and wept. So I patted her hand.
I couldn’t believe how the entire synagogue was transfixed by Denny Rosenblatt, the bar mitzvah of the day, the guy who sang most of his sentences in real life and followed beautiful girls at the mall. His voice, normally such an annoyance to his mother because of his stuttering, became something altogether different. Chill bumps rose from the back of my neck. He rang out in song-talk so beautifully that you just knew he was born to sing.
Afterward, his mother and father and grandfather could not stop kissing him and patting him on the back. Denny had the biggest smile in the world. It was amazing to see the actual moment when Denny the boy became Denny the man.
I admit that I had a case of Jew envy. It’s possible I always will.
The whole weight of thousands of years of tradition between fathers and sons made me so happy for Denny.
“We’ll go to the party now, okay? You’ll have fun with Dennis, yes?” Bubbie asked.
We went to the party.
Three hours after he became a man, Denny Rosenblatt had a big party in a hotel ballroom. Giant platters of food, a DJ, all kinds of funny blinking-light sunglasses, and dancing. It was all great to me, but Denny just sat at a big round table, looking across the room.
What?
“Max Goldsticker is talking to Monica with his perfect voice.”
I lined up my sight to see who Denny was looking at. A pretty curly-haired girl with big, dark eyes. Monica.
Do you want to go over there?
“What would I say?” Denny asked. “I stammer on the name Monica.”
Denny wasn’t budging. The whole room was supposed to be a party. A celebration for him. But he was miserable. I had an idea and didn’t know if I could pull it off. The only fact I had about my idea was that Denny really could sing.
My idea led me to the stage, where the band was about to start playing a new song. A Beatles song I’d written down on a piece of paper and handed to them. A song I’d heard Denny sing in his mom’s van a hundred times. One of the band members picked up the microphone and announced to the crowd that the next number was going to come from the guest of honor. Denny looked at the stage and at me. He shook his head, but I waved him up. If I could stand up there in front of a bunch of strangers with my beat-up face, I knew he could do this. And he would be impressive.
It was shouts from the crowd that finally got Denny up onstage. I made to head down the stairs, but Denny caught me by my arm before I could bolt.
“No way are you leaving,” he whispered. While Denny sang and the audience cheered, I stood in the background and watched him. Denny was as happy as I’d ever seen him. I spotted Monica in the crowd, and she was no longer talking to Max Goldsticker. She was singing along with Denny.
When it was over, Mrs. Rosenblatt hugged and kissed Denny. And Denny had a small group of people around him, too.
I sat at a table of Rosenblatts and they had twelve conversations going all at once and it was terrific. I pictured them all on the same plane, all on the same flight, just having one big party in the sky.
“Oh, Wayne, honey, look at your friend Dennis, isn’t he handsome tonight, I’m all verklempt,” Mrs. Rosenblatt said. “He has the voice of an angel, my Denny, doesn’t he? Wayne, honey, when is your birthday?”
I smiled at her.
Did you know that I was also about to turn thirteen?
Yep. If I had Hebrew blood, I was on the verge of being a man. I could stand out in the Flee’s front yard, and he could say, Here, son, have my collection of concert T-shirts.
“I’m going to make you a delicious sandwich for your birthday, Wayne,” Mrs. Rosenblatt said.
“Moooom, no one wants a sandwich for his birthdaaay!” Denny sang.